


freak of nature

by livtontea



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark/Mature Themes, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, No Beta, POV Second Person, Self-Hatred, death talk, i project onto ben, im fine dw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23075950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livtontea/pseuds/livtontea
Summary: You can imagine a doctor hunched over you, eyeglasses pushed high up on their nose, a clipboard in their hands as they tell you your condition is terminal.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 27





	freak of nature

**Author's Note:**

> more 2nd person pov bullshit in the middle of the night!! yayy
> 
> uhh im very blasé and flippant with the heavier shit in here? so be careful folks

You can imagine a doctor hunched over you, eyeglasses pushed high up on their nose, a clipboard in their hands as they tell you your condition is terminal. You are going to die. A long, slow, painful death, stretched out until you close your eyes one last time in a hospital bed and fucking choke on your own curse. This illness will kill you.

You are not ill.

You're a fucking monster, a disgusting horror from somewhere else, somewhere you can't name—you're a super, but the suffix isn't the same as your siblings', you're a goddamn super _villain_ and it's choking you from the inside.

You're so fucking angry. You're angry because being a monstrosity is terminal, being an abomination is something that can't be cured, and you never _asked_ to be either of those things, did you? You were born it, and you simmer with silent rage at the shitty hand that dealt you these shitty cards.

You keep all your rage inside. Where nobody can see it. You're already revolting, why make it worse by showing all the ugly, hideous feelings that threaten to rip from your chest?

Sometimes, you dream about it. About dying. The slithering _things_ will finally consume you. Your stomach will split like an overripe peach being slammed into the ground, and rot will spill from inside, covering everything in what you have always been.

Rot. You're rotten to the core. Disgusting, hideous, horrible creature. You're not human. You've never been human. You're a monster.

Everyone thinks so. They try not to show it, but everyone flinches back when they see you unleash. When you blow your fuses and let the raging killer inside slaughter everything. You aren't just a killer—you are a murder _machine._

So you don't let them see.

You lock yourself into a room, and rip off another condemned head, covering yourself in blood like a sick ritual, like you're trying to rebirth yourself from the ashes of the lives you've ended.

Whenever you throw up, it feels liberating. Feels like you're finally getting what you deserve, feels like you're finally becoming the vile thing inside your chest.

It's not in your chest. It has its limbs tight around your ribcage, but it comes out through your stomach, and it doesn't give a shit how much of you it rips apart in the process.

It's under your skin. It's crawling through the hollows between your bones. It's writhing in the spaces where your organs a shrivelled and wrong, made to accommodate it.

Your condition is terminal.

If you were born different, if you weren't where you are now, maybe you would think otherwise—maybe you would think you could suppress it, maybe you would think you could learn to coexist, but that is not who you are, and those are not your thoughts.

You hate yourself, you hate your body, you hate the parasite that uses you to feed itself. You're the host, and it's the parasite, and it has screwed itself deep into you. You're filth.

You know it'll rip itself free, eventually. You know fuck-all about how it's going to happen, but it will.

Maybe it'll flay you. Rip your skin right off your body. Peel it off your face slowly, and you'll writhe in agony as you bleed.

Your. Condition. Is. Terminal.

You're like a fucking cancer. What's inside you is like a disease. You are a disease. A disease to society, a disease to your family, and _you deserve to die._

And you will. You'll die a horrible bloody death, and at your funeral, they'll either cremate you, burn your flesh like you have wanted to do since you first unleashed, or they'll hide your body in the casket, shutting the lid.

Other people fear death. You welcome it.

What you really fear is the off-chance that you'll die, and then you _won't._ You'll wake up buried deep in the earth, and you'll be in a box, and there won't be any air. Maybe you can't die—you're a freak, a freak of nature, and when you defy the expectations of even someone who expects anything but normal, this isn't outside the realm of possibility.

You'll wake up. And you'll be gasping for breath. And they'll slither out of you and finish you off a second time, choking you until your head pops like a blue balloon. And then it'll happen again. And again.

You won't be able to escape yourself.

That's what you dream about when you start awake, gasping and dripping with sweat. Not dying.

Living with yourself.

You're too much of a coward to cut into your skin, so you settle for missions instead. What's it to you if you speed up your death by a day or two? You're a disorder. An illness. A disease. You're going to kill yourself, in the end, either way. It probably won't even be on purpose.

Apple cores, rotting fruit, blood splatters on your clothing—it's all the same to you.

The imaginary doctor in your head screams as your blasphemies unfurl and rip out their throat.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tonglr @seven-misfits, and also if u wanna leave a comment i would be great w that


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